


Sol Invictus (When in Rome...)

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hartwin, M/M, Oral Sex, Pagan Festivals, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Saturnalia, Tinselwank 2017, Why Did I Write This?, Yuletide, fairytale, reckless celtic handholding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 08:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12955623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Tinselwank2017 gift for Rileyout, who requested 100AD AU in which Romansoldier!Harry, camped out in Britain, finds himself at a Yule celebration in an attempt to rub along with the locals. He's determined to be thoroughly miserable about it until he spots a young man with a smile like the solstice dawn and suddenly develops an interest in sharing some of the more insteresting regional customs.





	Sol Invictus (When in Rome...)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rileyout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rileyout/gifts).



> Rileyout gave me this as her prompt because she hates Christmas and I'm fairly sure she secretly hates me. But I did my best and I'm strangely pleased with how it worked out.
> 
> Suspend disbelief, all ye who enter here. I did my best.

Britain in the height of summer is colder than Rome in the depths of winter, so Harry’s told, although he wouldn’t know: it was November by the time his army reached the valley in which they were to establish camp, as unthreateningly as an entire legion and its entourage could possibly manage, whilst the business of politics took place nearby. As Centurion, Harry will be amongst the first to know should they be required to attack, or in fact to pack up and trudge home again… it’s mid December, there’s precious little indication of negotiations moving in any direction at all, and by the gods it's freezing.

It's colder, somehow, than it had been days before when they'd been shin deep in snow, which is less melted now than simply been worn flat by weather and walking, trudged down to a hard crust of ice underfoot, and now there's no shimmering blanket to put a pretty sheen on the bone deep miserable fucking cold. Everyone in Harry's company has been ill for weeks: not plagued or poxed but aching and sneezing and sickly pale. The local villagers have been welcoming enough of the camped army all the time it brings trade and no threat of violence - Harry gathers the end result of the invasion means little to these country folk either way - but the friendliness has not extended to sharing the secrets to coping with the miserable conditions.

Why Ceasar wants this shitheap is an utter mystery: as far as Harry is concerned the natives can keep it and then he can divert his efforts to somewhere like Egypt where he might not freeze his bollocks off.

It's also dark, and the dark seems to creep in further from the morning and evening noticeably each day, like the day is reeling from a blow to the head, black closing in around the edges and threatening to seal it off with darkness altogether. Harry hates it. He has the company’s slaves and attendants keep the fire burning in the bowl in his tent  - vented off centre so the sleet doesn't put the fire out, he's learned _that_ much from his dealings with the Picts- even whilst he's out so that he can at least return to some semblance of  light and warmth at the end of each day. He swears daily that he will never be ungrateful for the dry heat of Rome again.

It's on this subject his General had claimed to have good news for him: the locals mark the longest night of the year with a vigil, a celebration as close to Saturnalia as they can muster without the abundance of food, drink or… just about anything else as at home, and he informed Harry of this a few nights before its advent.

“Since you're so fond of moaning about the dark, you can go and be part of our representation.”

Of course, he’d told him exactly what he thought about having to work through the celebrations, even if they're not his customs, but the General was having none of it.

“I'm not expecting you to stand armed at the ready, we've got a whole guard for that. Go and join in. Drink, dance, find some pretty thing to warm your bed and come back for the new rotation in a better mood.  It will help keep things smooth and Juno knows I could do with seeing a smile on your face.”

Harry had grumbled, obviously: a scant privilege of his rank was that he could afford to dissent, although he’d known before he opened his mouth that it was a fool’s errand, because the General had made his mind up on being ‘nice’ and that was that.

“Go on. You might surprise us all and actually have some fun.”

It surprises nobody quite as much as Harry when he turns out to be right.

 

Harry has never been a particularly religious man - he serves his Caesar first and the gods second and both have done well by him up until posting him in this miserable northern hole - but he keeps his festivals and the seasons so he’s relieved to see enough familiar themes in the celebrations that he doesn’t feel disingenuous for joining in. Outside in the darkness, the festival pales in comparison to the winter banquets of home although he does grudgingly have to acknowledge that it's starting to hold an appeal… because he’s developed enough of a taste for the local ale to be pleased that it’s plentiful;  a large fire lit in the centre of the gathering promises warmth he can’t quite feel from where he’s sitting on a hay bale out of the way, and Harry's not shy to admit, although he has nobody to admit it to at that moment, that he has indeed found something pretty to feast his eyes on.

The General knew well enough where Harry's preferences lie and wouldn't have sent him into trouble, and Harry has seen enough of the locals to feel reassured that this isn't one of the places where they shun men like him or worse, despite being otherwise culturally primitive. It doesn't mean the attention is necessarily welcome, of course, but that doesn't stop Harry looking his fill.

And he's spotted the most beautiful boy, flitting around amidst the throng of activity closest to the fire. Small but sturdy built, fair - and Harry's noticed he's developing a weak point for the novelty of that, the more he sees of it - perhaps twenty or so, no younger,  in roughspun trousers and boots, thick chest and broad shoulders bared to gleam in the firelight. That's insanity, in Harry's eyes, shivering as he is himself, but then he sees the earnest sweat of hard work and proximity to the fire shining on the young man’s forearms and sees the sense.

Harry is momentarily jealous, but he's been on duty for days and the appeal of sitting down for a while is just a fraction more appealing than working up warmth. It helps that all the while he stays there he has the appealing view of the boy at work, turning pots and dragging forward more kindling to even out the scallops of the fire that haven’t taken as quickly, so he’s content to watch whilst he drinks.

Having eaten well at camp, it takes a while for the strength of the ale to make itself known in the softening of Harry's guard but he does start to relax, even though his fingers feel frozen solid around his mug where he can’t pull his cloak far enough around his hand.  His chosen subject comes pleasingly closer, adjacent to the fire to speak to a group there, where Harry can see him bette and that view in itself is worth the chill.

His impossibly fair skin is made brighter by contrast to bluish purple patterns traced onto it in some sort of paint and Harry doesn't know enough about the traditions to recognise whether the markings themselves have ceremonial significance, but it makes a very pretty picture. In the light, his hair is golden, his eyes sparkle with mirth. He could be the sun. At home he’d be quite the exotic centrepiece and no doubt crowned king of the festival. If this were Greece his role in the ceremony would doubtless be to be worshipped as an icon of the rising dawn, of Helios himself... but these pagans do not name their gods, as far as Harry can tell, and the boy is relegated to tending the fire and the urns set by it where the drink is warming. It's a waste. A crying shame that he's not regaled in gold and gems and carried on adoring hands to be doted on for the duration of the festival.

It hasnt escaped Harry's little fantasy that if he were at home they'd be celebrating Saturnalia around now, marked out amidst the calendar of eating and orgies by its focus on the reversals of the classes, the liberty of slaves to feast alongside their masters and be thanked. Harry smiles into the bottom of his ale. How strange, he thinks, that the spirits of the season seem to have followed him all the way here and made themselves known in his urge to take this good looking peasant boy and thoroughly spoil him with luxury.

Harry never hosts parties: Unmarried and still working, he's always an honoured guest at someone else's celebrations, but if this boy appeared amongst his modest retinue he might just have decided to throw a feast for the holiday, for the excuse to sit him at a table and share his meal with him... perhaps feed him with his fingers to feel those smiling lips on his skin; to see if a ritual invitation might be extended to rub away the aches in his shoulders or his feet; to see if he'd accept the honour of a place in his master's bed at the end of the night.

A howl of freezing wind across the hollow snaps Harry from his fancies. This is not Rome. This boy is not Harry's to do as he pleases with, and more’s the pity, but then again that means Harry needn't worry that he's returning those glances out of any sense of obligation…  Because he _is_ returning them.

The first time, he caught Harry looking, so the smile might have been a nervous one, or a polite acknowledgement. The second may have been accidental. The third time he is openly waiting for Harry to look up so that he can smile at him, then it's amused and daring rather than the bright beam of before. Harry knows that look and he can scarce believe he's seeing it: his instinct is to dismiss it as wishful thinking but it stands out so starkly from the healthy trepidation with which everyone else has regarded him that he just can't.  Even out of uniform, in his thick woolen greatkilt and cloak his status is obvious, and yet this stunning young farm boy seems not at all afraid to admire him.  Interesting.

The chill is still bitter, the wind biting, but something hot is starting to spread out through Harry's chest and finishing his cup of ale does nothing to cool it, not that he wants it to.

Someone who isn't the boy and therefore is not interesting to Harry in any way at that moment blows a horn and shouts something. There's an amount of raucous laughter, then a group which _does_ include the boy breaks forward with mockeries of apology and begin carrying around the bowls of drink and baskets of cake to the party, who've formed a loose circle inside the hay bales that Harry finds himself accidentally but conveniently included in.

With a flutter of warm intuition Harry realises both that the young man has allocated himself to Harry's section of the circle and that he might know exactly why. He challenges the drink coddling his reasoning, stares it down, but finds that it holds.  Excitement flutters low in his belly.

Harry tries to find enough of a mouthful left in the bottom of his ale mug to wet his throat as the young man draws nearer still. Some lucky opportunistic soul has extended the pattern of curls, runes and basic sigils up onto his shoulders and down across the tight curves of his chest; his skins glistens between the chalky lines of the paint and when he brings the bowl around Harry would swear he can feel the heat radiating off him from arms’ length.

“May you never thirst,” he declares grandly, holding the bowl forwards for Harry to drink from.

Harry expects wine but it's something else entirely: hot, heady and deeply sweet, the sharp of apples and then honey so intense it drags and stings at his throat on the way down. It tastes like a headache, but it warms him almost as much as that smile.

“Waes hael,” Harry pronounces carefully, and by the pursed lips and the raised eyebrow the effort is appreciated even if he hasn't got it exactly right.

“Waes hael,” the boy agrees, subtly different but without conscious correction, and takes a drink himself.

If he's going to do that with every pass of the bowl to everyone he's not going to be standing for long, which might be fine if it's Harry's arms he falls into.

But he doesn't, and isn't that interesting? A few people get an embrace as well as the toast, crunching and flaking the paint on the boy’s chest, but more just accept the bowl, drink from it and hand it back as he makes a circuit, refills from a jug close to the fire, and brings it round again.

By his third round Harry has detached from the side of a crowd and edged so close to the fire - out of sheer desperation, lest he actually loses the fight against the painful tingling in his limbs and turns to stone - that it compels the boy to approach him, which must in itself be worth the suffering. He asks Harry quite cautiously, slowly,  if he is well.

“I am well, thank you. Only cold.”

The boy smiles when he realises Harry knows more of his language than he expects.

“If you get any closer you're going to be very, very warm for the rest of your life.”

It takes a moment for the joke to catch up to Harry, and then he bursts out into a laugh and the boy grins at having entertained him. He dutifully steps back, with a nod of thanks and acknowledgement, and the young man is gone again, leaving Harry to muse on his bold wit as well as his beauty.

For some time, there is music. It's simple but bright, lively; optimistic, like the players don't realise there are endless hours of this left to go, and some of those dancing don't look like they'll be conscious for long enough to care. At least they look warm, if not from the drink and the exertion then from the hands of those closest: Harry wonders how many of those groping by the fireside are old lovers, how many will wake up in unfamiliar beds, and for a moment thinks of home. He's prepared for the swift kick of jealousy and rejection if he finds the object of his lust has coupled off, but no. The boy still tends his duties. He returns Harry’s gaze with a smile and, when he sees where else his attention is lingering, a wink.

Harry is not sure how his blood can run so hot whilst he is so wretchedly bloody cold.

After the first swell of the party comes a period of intensive drinking and deep discussion. Harry can only linger at the edges of conversations, making seasonal pleasantries. The locals have been welcoming enough to their peaceful passing-through but he’s still a stranger; he speaks the language well but this only seems to daunt people,

plus some subtleties are lost and nobody makes any special effort to accommodate him despite knowing obliquely of his importance, and he doesn't really know what to do with himself. He overcomes this problem by accepting another fill of his cup when the girl with the ale jug comes around again, and draining it almost immediately.

The next time the golden young man swings by Harry summons the courage to stop him on the pretence of explaining the customs of the occasion. Although he already knows, he listens attentively, managing to drink an entire cup of the sweet honey wine he's now carrying so fast it momentarily makes his head spin and he starts to lose the thread of conversation in favour of staring, tracing the paint patterns over the boy’s body with his eyes… he struggles to think of a sculpture that's done as much justice for all the things he likes about the male form, and he wants to tell him that, but he doesn’t.  The boy drinks with him and either he's more used to the concoction or he's relying on his youth to save him from the way Harry knows he is going to feel in the morning, but he's pink across the cheeks, loose limbed and merry. It’s beautifully, increasingly clear with every sip of wine, every passing grin that they both understand why they are standing there,  that Harry knows the answers to the questions he’s asking; that the boy knows he knows but answers them anyway for a reason to stay so close.

“What do I call you?”

“Me? Eggsy.”

Harry is unsure that he's heard correctly, or else that he's remembering his translations properly. “Egg, like a chicken egg?”

That bright smile turns into a laugh of encouragement and he nods. “Or a duck.”

“Or a goose.” If they're not careful, drink will lure them into simply reeling off creatures that lay eggs and laughing about it until the sun rises. Harry is utterly charmed.  “But plural. Eggs- _Eee_.” He seems well aware that this is in most languages unlikely and humorous but doesn't offer any explanation.

“And you? Am I, uh, permitted…” the boy - Eggsy, he repeats in his head - flusters suddenly in acknowledgement of the veritable leagues between himself and Harry.

Harry could, of course, assert his position: the boy might be impressed or frightened enough to tip the odds in Harry's favour, it’s true, but that pale imitation of what he actually wants might cost him his real chance, so he forgoes the eight names, the battle titles and trappings that will mean nothing to the boy, and simply offers “Harry.”

Eggsy nods again and looks as though he's considering movement: an embrace or a handshake, perhaps, but he thinks better of it and is simply left facing him, surprisingly open admiration on his face, expectation thick as the smoke in the air.

Suddenly, Harry feels ridiculous. There he stands, a decorated warrior with his cloak clutched around him like a child swaddled in a blanket, in front of this boy who bears paint rather than scars but  doesn’t appear to be so much as prickled by the cold. There are tiny pink marks on his forearms where the embers have spat and burned him, just begging to be kissed.

Harry pushes his cloak back over his shoulders and straightens up, telling himself that the alcohol is actually warming him rather than just making him want to show off. It doesn't fool the raised hairs on his skin and it doesn't fool the golden boy who notices and hands him the bowl of warmed apple-wine by the handles.

“Here, get some more of that down you. This in't quite what you’re used to, is it?”

It isn't, but he can't honestly say it doesn't have its merits. He allows himself s slow look, top to toe and back.

“We do have similar parties, in Rome. But they tend to be a little more,” -  he fumbles for a polite word “...indoors.” A soft, dirty little laugh tells him Eggsy knows or thinks he knows what Harry is driving at. All sorts of stories have circulated about the vices and extravagances of the Romans and Harry thinks wistfully that some of them were even almost close to true.  “People must be happy to take their clothes off, to be comfortable, to…” Eggsy looks at him, eyebrow raised in challenge, and Harry realises he must either surrender to what's left of subtlety or strike true. Eventually drink makes his decisions for him.  “... to do whatever they wish. Our feasts are days and days of eating and drinking and pleasure. Nothing indulgence too much, no desire forbidden.”

Saying it out loud, forcing himself to think of the translation through the slight cloud of alcohol brings  it all close enough to make excitement curl up from his hips and settle, He allows himself to picture, for a moment, this beautiful golden boy shining out amidst the festivities at home, rare and precious. Sees him fawning, overwhelmed, with hands all over his naked skin, everyone close enough clamouring, desperate to get a taste of him.  He sees him reclining back against Harry's chest as he's pleasured by a succession of women, men… whatever he prefers. Harry would be content just to watch him if he wanted, although he's getting the distinct impression the boy might deign to have him a little more involved: there's no other real justification for how long he maintains the heady lock of their eyes, or the way his lips quirk as Harry goes on to tell him more of their more interesting customs. He leans heavily on saturnalia specifically, on the blurring of the boundaries of rank and class, and watches the way Eggsys eyes roam over him as he speaks.

At home, Harry's names have been woven into songs about bravery. But here, freezing in the face of simmering promise between him and a devastatingly attractive young man he's shared more meaningful looks than words with, he's not convinced he'd be being nearly so bold were the wine not going to his head and cutting his tongue loose from his nerve. His hand sneaks of its own accord to trail across the boy’s collar, over his shoulders.

“A beautiful thing like you… you could have whatever you wanted. Whoever you wanted.”

The moment for him to pull away, if Harry has grossly misjudged the lie of the land so far, passes unmarked.

“And what makes you think that doesn't happen here?”

“It's too fucking cold.” Confident now, Harry’s wit is quick, blunt-force.  “I thought _once_ I heard someone moan in ecstasy but it turned out to be one of my lieutenants dying of frostbite.”

Eggsy laughs so suddenly that he coughs and dribbles wine down his chin and Harry cannot help but wipe it away on the tips of his fingers, pausing for a second to grip Eggsy’s jaw with his thumb and turn his face slightly. In the firelight he sees his eyes are neither the cold crystal blue he's become used to since they arrived nor the bright azure common at home but a glassy sea green that Harry wouldn't be sad to drown in. He has an intense, gripping urge to kiss him but he’s still aware of his senses enough to feel a little decorum would be wise. Still, Eggsy notices Harry’s eyes flick down to his mouth and there, just momentarily, is the tiniest hint of his tongue wetting his bottom lip.

A shiver tickles at Harry suddenly and he shudders involuntarily. Eggsy takes that to mean he’s cold, which is not untrue in the slightest and Harry is not about to correct him, not when the boy spreads his arms out and gestures for Harry to stand between them.

“Come here. Come on.”

Harry steps forward, and before he can consider his victory he’s wrapped into a tight, close embrace, Eggsy’s arms slipping around his body under his cloak and his hands resting at his lower back.

There's certainly nothing brotherly in the way he holds him. The contact is lead from the hips, partly so that Eggsy can draw back enough to look up at Harry  without letting go, and if his previous posture had left any room for doubt, this squashes it thoroughly in the press between their bodies.

Someone - a friend he'd hugged earlier - whistles at them from nearby, low and lewd and the boy makes a gesture at him Harry doesn't have an exact translation of but it's obviously friendly swearing, and the boy laughs. Nobody comes to drag them to the outskirts of the village for stoning; there is perhaps the momentary suggestion of surprise in the air but no shock. Not so different to home, he supposes, after all.

Whatever is left of Harry's reservation blows away in the icy north wind. He curls his arm around Eggsy’s shoulders and pulls him close enough that only he will hear him over the din of celebration and the roar of the fire. His pulse pounds in his neck and ears, threatening to choke and deafen him at once.

“If you liked, I could introduce you to a few of our customs.” His lips just barely touch the hinge of the boy’s jaw. “Our wine is better, to start with, and it's a damned sight warmer in my tent…”

He’s still out on a limb, not entirely sure of the boy’s liberty to accept even though he’s certain now that he wants to, pressure against his hip telling him he’s not the only one aroused now that they’re touching. His voice is growing hoarse with cold, wobbling under the tension between them and the weight of the wine, and it scrapes pleasantly over Harry's excitement, as physical as the warmth of his breath against his skin.

“One night a year, I have to see the sun up, and you make me an offer like that.”

Heat flushes up to Harry's ears, soon doused in disappointment, but he brushes that off quickly: more of that warm honey wine will chase the little tweak of sadness from his chest.  In honesty, he wasn’t sure he even expected success, and it makes him preen to think he might have seduced this brave and beautiful creature - despite being the gods only knew how many years older - were circumstances different.

Or might he still, if he’s patient?  That response did not sound put upon in the slightest, breathy and heated as it was. If anything, it sounded genuinely frustrated, and really, who is Harry to let the poor boy down? To allow him to work all night and go to bed alone, cold and frustrated? It would be sacrilege. He'll not hear of it.

So he does not turn in for the night the next time Eggsy is called away to assist with proceedings, as he might have intended to, but immerses himself in the revelry.

The longer for which he does not leave, the more hopeful he fancies the boy starts to look and Harry beings to puff with pride, but that might be the drink. Either way he is content. There is some passing chatter with other locals who seem reassured by the soldier’s evident friendliness with one of their own farm boys, or else perhaps just relieved that he has so obviously chosen his interest for the night and it's neither them not their daughters.  Regardless,  Eggsy stays close by and Harry keeps his company with pleasure. His wit is quicker than Harry expected for a peasant, quicker than his translation can always keep up with, and flits off in unexpected directions. More alcohol speeds it along to a pleasant blur, and Harry realises with some humoured irritation that he is really enjoying himself despite being resigned to never feeling his toes or fingers again.

He knows the ale’s really gone to his head when Harry almost, _almost_ considers dancing with a local girl who keeps fluttering her eyelashes at him and pulls at his hand. The fact he contemplates dancing at all tells him to refuse the next two refills of wine until Eggsy swaggers back to him, pink and breathless, jug in hand, and toasts himself he drinks again then and, yes, even dances for a few moments. He tells himself it’s to dislodge the pain settling into his limbs with the cold, lest they find him in a block of ice on the spot come morning, but he stumbles to sit down on a bale when Eggsy leaves his side again.

There's a fight that concerns precisely nobody except those involved and even they seem to forget about it midway through. There's some sort of rite which Harry remains at a short, respectful distance from; at the conclusion, the young couple that have been surrounded  are ushered from the circle to a decisive amount of whooping and cheering, and at the point others seem to take their cue and disappear in pairs, Eggsy reappears by his side. Harry fails to conceal his flush of surprise as some steal away in larger groups and still others stumble over themselves where they stand and have to be hurried away by caring friends before they give into their happy, inebriated desires there in the frost.

Eggsy quirks an eyebrow at his staring, swallowing the honey wine that Harry passes to him. “You lot didn't invent fucking, you know.”

Even hearing him say the word, accent rolling over the flint of the British, so harsh to Harry’s ears, is enough to make Harry hard again. He counters with a rough grin.  “We are the best at it, though.”

“Really.” He laughs, but it's not the laugh he's given Harry's jokes so far. It's a scoff, a challenge if ever he's heard one. Despite the external cold, heat floods suddenly down Harry's back. His cock pulses in renewed interest, surprisingly patient despite the cold and enough drink that the weather is now less a concern than the way Harry’s vision wobbles ever so slightly if he moves too quickly. That’s had the desired effect, at least.

Eventually - and gods, knowing it's the longest night of the year to be fact and actually sitting through it are two entirely different matters: Harry is drunk and the fact he's frozen to the core is the only thing stopping him falling asleep against a hay bale - the sunrise  starts to break over the horizon.  Drums rumble, then die away when the whole process takes so much longer than anyone seems ready for even though they do it at least twice a year, and then pick back up when the line of light brightens and the sun itself appears. People cheer. Those who have fallen asleep are woken to great the merciful dawn and the party swings back into motion, surreal in the watery new sunlight. Harry feels a bizarre sense of accomplishment, particularly when Eggsy returns from the thick of the throng so soon after. He almost hadn’t dared hope, and as soon as he lets the hope flood in, it’s chased by the darker rush of excitement, of hunger.

“I see your work is done. The sun will return for another year yet.”

“Well thank fuck for that, I'm freezing.” Eggsy fixes him with a deliberate stare, as though he’s absurd; as if it’s been Harry’s idea to linger around in the cold all night when they could so easily have slipped away to make good on the promises of their eyes. They both laugh, and Harry makes as if to wrap Eggsy in his cloak before pulling it away from him quickly, teasing.

“Well, I have a perfectly good bed, knee deep in furs, which I plan to celebrate thawing out in.”

Eggsy grins ruefully.  “Sounds lovely.”

It takes Harry a good dozen strides, perhaps more, to realise Eggsy is not at his heels, and when he turns he sees him standing dejectedly where he was left, arms around his torso, staring into the embers of the fire. He looks confused, perhaps, and Harry probably would be in his position because there has obviously been some woeful linguistic gap if there was any ambiguity to his invitation at all.

Tired and utterly fed up with the whole dance of it, Harry stalks back, picks Eggsy up over his shoulders and carries him back to his tent.

Other than a gasp and laughter there's no protest: Eggsy even clasps his arms around Harry to make his own weight easier for him to bear the short distance to their camp and in to where the size and spread of Harry's tents make them easy to pick out, however uncooperative the drink has made his feet.

The fire is still crackling, the bed has never looked so inviting and Harry flips Eggsy off his shoulders and into the pile of furs so that he lands upside down with his feet on the cushions, laughing still.

Harry half stumbles, half flings himself down so he almost lands on top of him, expects more laughter but then there's lips against his, a tongue in his mouth, wet and urgent and the sudden assault of it sends a quiver of lust through Harry's stomach.  His head reels. The sudden change from cold dawn to the fire-lit closeness of his tent is so jarring they might have fallen into another world altogether: they might be in a bedroom back in Rome on a late summer’s evening, or Elysium itself. He’s suddenly hot and all the sensations the cool of the night had kept at bay hit him at once, discomfort chased out of every nerve by lust.

Motions become blurred, indistinct. Under Harry's hands, Eggsy sheds what's left of his clothing into a damp, cold heap that Harry kicks from the end of his bedding so it can't intrude on the warmth that’s building around them. Eggsy’s chilled skin flushes quickly under Harry's touches, the presses of his mouth along the boy’s neck and collarbones making him writhe and groan so Harry licks and bites softly, just sucking at the points where he can feel his pulse. It's heavenly.  The wood smoke on Eggsy is enough to choke on, the salt of his skin underneath cuts deliciously through the sweet fuzz of ale and wine in Harry’s mouth and he can’t get enough of him.

It takes a moment for his own bliss to make its way to his head, but his body strides along in enjoying the boy’s eager hands, the clumsy wet rasp of his tongue when it finds Harry’s throat, his jaw, his earlobes; the harsh panting in his ear whilst Eggsy fumbles at the fastenings on Harry's thick woolen kilt. He lends him some help there but lets Eggsy strip the rest off his clothing off him in a series of bruising yanks and pulls, replacing the cover of cloth with his body, kissing away the cold before it can sneak in and moving him back to where he wants him.  He's confident, self possessed in a way people don't usually have the courage to be with a man of his status. Harry knows it isn't for want of understanding who he is: just that the boy knows what he wants, and how to take it. Harry thinks he loves him.

Their hands and mouths are all over each other. Harry’s entirely lost the will to think consciously about what he’s doing and what’s being done to him, swept up in the flood of pleasure under his skin, in the thrill of every one of his senses being given exactly what it’s been begging him for all night: he tongues at the boy’s nipple when he finds himself there, digs his teeth into the muscle below; he sates the hunger of his hands by grabbing his fill of the youthful plushness of Eggsy’s body, in rubbing against him and pushing and kissing and biting as he pleases.

Heat clamours at Harry's face, his neck. Sweat pours down his back. Was he ever cold?

Eggsy moans loudly at some touch or other and desire lurches quickly through Harry's body, ending in a sharp pulse in his prick. Outside it is past dawn, the camp is awake and a hot thrill goes through him to think of someone hearing them, so Harry does what he can to make him sound like that again. A lick; a moment of stillness with the warmth of his breath ticking at his flesh; a harsh grab and the pinch of his nails. The boy returns his enthusiasm without shame or shyness, gasping and grunting with every breath. Harry’s flesh is covered in blooms of bliss and pain and ecstacy and heat, everywhere at once.

Eggsy grabs him by the shoulders and rolls them, pushing Harry down into his furs and grinning at him when Harry dares to open his eyes. The roof of the tent spins behind him, and Harry can only admire that for a moment before he has to touch more of him, has to drag him down to rub their bodies together and get a hold on the perfect swell of the boy’s arse in both tingling hands.

It can’t go on like this. It’s heavenly but Harry’s cock is aching, straining against the hard muscle of Eggsy’s thigh and catching on the skin. The urge to keep rubbing on him would be overwhelming if not for that burn that just breaks through the swirl of pleasure: it’s just enough to force Harry to roll them and pull back from his shifting, gasping partner. Eggsy has his eyes pressed shut, his mouth open, hips hitching up to him as Harry grabs blindly at a flask, warms oil between his hands and lets it spill onto their skin.

That gets a loud groan right from the depths of Eggsy’s sweat-slick chest.

Then they’re intertwined again, writhing hopelessly.  Harry strokes wherever his hands fall whilst they kiss and grind at each other, barrelling at full speed towards… what exactly, he isn't sure, but Harry wants Eggsy, and quickly.  He wants to bury himself in him, up to the hilt and rut and hump until he comes, but he lacks the coordination or the patience at this moment. Besides, he's not as confident now that this boy will simply submit to be fucked. It hadn't even occurred to him as a matter for debate, and suddenly things seem far less clear cut than at home. He's not sure he minds. In the pure blinding heat of it he can almost feel an urge to spread his legs, to allow Eggsy to bend him over and mount him, to feel that strong body hold him down and ram into him but his lust is checked by fear, confusion, wine... Maybe there'll be another time for that.

Harry finds himself on top of the boy in his bed again, nearly face to face, laying in the spread of his thighs. Eggsy is flushed and sweating, bottom lip between his teeth.

“Y _ou're beautiful,_ ” he tells him, then realises that in the heady fog of drink and desire that he's slipped back into his own language, but Eggsy moans at the roll of the words so he carries on, hotly murmuring the things he wants to do to him - the ones he has no translations for - right against the shell of his ear.

“I don't understand you,” Eggsy gasps eventually, writhing up against him, so the feeling is getting through even if the words are meaningless to him.

“Yes, you do.”  Harry laces their fingers together and drags Eggsy’s hand down to wrap around his cock. “You understand this.”

The boy squirms and shifts his legs together, and Harry falters in confusion, horrified that he feels the need to protect himself like that: Harry may be desperate for him but he would never… he didn't mean to -  but then a warm hand grasps at his cock again, feeding it into the tight, muscular clasp of the boy’s thighs. Eggsy’s hands go to Harry’s arse, squeezing first and then guiding him to thrust a couple of times, slipping in the oil.

The boy is a _genius_.

“Is that…” Eggsy breathes it softly, still molten in Harry's arms “Is that nice? Good?” as though it’s for want of translation that he can’t respond. “Is that _enough?”_

Harry tries to answer, he really does, but any semblance of their dialect has left him. His own isn't a lot easier to call to mind and all he can do is groan, keeping up the rocking of his hips, pushing into the squeeze of hot flesh and it's plenty enough. He feels no disappointment about not being literally inside of him when he can still fuck him like this, easy and quick, and each thrust knocks a soft, huffed little whine from Eggsy that Harry can feel on his shoulder.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.” Eggsy squirms to wrap the hand that isn't clawing at the top of Harry's backside around his own cock and cants his hips up. “Go on.”  
  
It's a beautiful picture. If Harry has to slay armies, if he has to march back here alone and on foot, if he has to fucking spend the rest of his life in the eternal aching cold of British winter he swears he _will_ one day sit back with a glass of wine and watch this boy pleasure himself to coming, but right now he grasps Eggsy by the wrist an snatches his hand away. He hopes how knows it’s because he wants that for himself, not because he shouldn't enjoy it but gods, he can't speak to tell him. Can't think or help or do anything but grip him roughly by the arse and the arm and hold him down as instinct takes over the driving of his hips.

Pleasure needles at the base of Harry's spine, his arse, the backs of his thighs, drumming into him like rainfall on stone as he slips quicker in the oil and the freely running sweat, muffling his own cries against Eggsy’s shoulder as he surrenders to orgasm, savouring every hot spasm of bliss as it wracks through him and leaves him twitching, spent, in a slick mess between Eggsy’s legs.

It speaks volumes that the body under him is more appealing to Harry than sleep at that moment, but Eggsy is rock hard and breathless, and he needs to see him satisfied. He backs down, nibbling at random waypoints where the firelight shows him smudges that could be paint or birthmarks, burns or freckles; worshipping with his mouth. When Eggsy whimpers he duscks to scrape a bite to the curve under his navel, to cover from there down in sloppy kisses, teeth and tongue, until he’s knelt in the bedding between Eggsy’s feet to finally put his mouth to the boy’s beautifully hard prick. He sucks him, and Eggsy cries out a wordless curse into the bedding.

It's not the time for teasing or exploration, as much as Harry with a clearer head would love to lick every trace of glistening desperation from the tip of Eggsy's cock and start anew. Instead Harry holds him firmly around the root with his left hand whilst he takes him into his throat.

Eggsy whines with want, fists his hands in Harry's hair to push him down, and Harry can’t help but groan. Nobody's dared touch him like that in many a year. Its as if Eggsy realises at the same moment because he pulls his hands away as though scalded, choking out breathless apologies whilst Harry keeps working at his cock.

Rather than waste his mouth on answering, Harry laces their hands together and puts them back in his hair. The strained cry he gets in return is music.

Eggsy’s thighs are rigid either side of Harry’s face, twitching and starting to bruise with attention he barely remembers paying. The head of his cock rubs against the roof of Harry’s mouth, quick and uncomfortably hard but Harry is wine-loose and too enthralled to find it anything but wonderful. He grasps and strokes up, rubbing his oiled fingers hard against the spot just behind Eggsy's balls, pressing in, easing off to slide backwards over his hole and he moans then, flesh twitching under Harry's fingers, cock stiffening still further in Harry’s mouth.

The moans become louder, more urgent, form words that Harry doesn't understand; there's a scrabbling at the nape of his neck that turns into a grasp and Eggsy's hips buck up sharply.

“Oh, _fuck.”_

Harry's heart soars and hot, sharp salt floods his mouth; his own prick gives a tired little hitch of satisfaction as Eggsy shudders violently and collapses back, panting.

Harry finds a flask of wine to refresh them both. It's almost a shame to lose the taste but if he doesn't he'll regret it soon, and by the time he passes the flask to Eggsy he can barely hold his own exhausted weight off of the cushions. He's warm at last, sated and merry, and his bed is that much more welcoming for having a beautiful boy in it who looks about as firmly tethered to consciousness as Harry feels, settling down next to him with a dopey smile that still sparkles.

 

He’s woken by Eggsy worming out from his grip. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep: long enough to slip from drunken languidity into pain in his joints and his head; not long enough for those to be fading. He has little capacity for coherent thought but he’s not at all impressed by the idea of the warm, attractive body beside him removing itself from his lazy grasp, and then he remembers: they only came inside at dawn, and his cock stiffens up a little as memories of the time since begin to filter in. But so much is still untried, untasted. There's so much sleep and warmth and comfort still to enjoy that his companion must need even more sorely than he does.

As such, he cannot quite grasp why the boy is so intent on locating his boots. He could easily nip for a piss without getting dressed: Harry watched him weather the entire night outside half naked. Where is he going?

“I must go. Really. I don't want to, believe me.”

He absolutely must not. Harry isn't sure why he feels he should, but he will not hear of it: if the boy simply wanted to leave then he would not trouble him despite his disappointment, but if he wishes to stay then there is surely no ‘must’ that is not within Harry's power to overcome.

“Stay here with me. It's cold out, you're tired.” He shakes himself awake and sits up, making a grab that’s rewarded with Eggsy kissing at his forearm, his wrist, his fingers. when he doesnt look like stopping, harry pulls him back and lays it on thick.  “My faith demands we continue celebrating for the rest of the week.” He kisses at his neck and shoulders. “It will be a great affront to the gods of the season if I don't keep you here mindless with pleasure and feed you and ply you with wine until you're sick. You'll be condemning me to failure, poverty, illness and death.”

Eggsy squirms away, laughing, “I've got to work.’

“Today?”

“Animals need fed. They don’t take a day off from eating just because we're all a mess.”

They are a mess, covered in a barely dried residue of whatever Eggsy was painted with thinned down with oil, sweat, seed and spilled wine and the gods only knew what else. They may only be a handful of hours into marking the rebirth of the returning sun their traditions share in Harry's ways, but for two people in a tent they're making a reasonable go at it and Harry feels strangely proud.

“Can't someone else do it?”

“I suppose they _could_...but that's what they have me for, and I gotta earn my keep.”

Eggsy Rubs at his face and gets out of bed for the second time, again determined despite himself.

Harry grunts impatiently, rummages next to the bed and throws a leather purse of coin at him.

“Take that to your employer to account for my depriving them of you for a day or two and get back here. And bring food. I'm in no mood to surface until I'm due back on the lines.”

Eggsy, having wrangled himself from the temptation and the tangle of the bedding, is standing gawping at the gold spread out in his hand. Harry notes with absent satisfaction how the paint on his body no longer resembles anything coherent, reduced where it is still visible to finger smears, and red bruises shine like medals from the lines of his neck, the arcs of his hip bones, the insides of his biceps. Harry’s head pounds, so he lays back down.

“... this is not a couple of day’s wages, Harry.”

“Is it not? I've had no need of trade since I got here. There's-” he's about to say there's more in the chest next to him, under his clothing, but Eggsy had noticed that and is staring unchecked at the gold in his palm, let alone the rolls of coin nestled amidst the linen.

“..If I give them this they'll think you mean to _buy_ me.”

“Oh.” He chuckles. His laugh is partly at the fact that it's not out of the question: he often forgets how much their currency is worth here, how little the locals have to trade between them. Eggsy wouldn't be the first Celt to end up slave in a Roman household from this trip, with someone or other decently remunerated for the inconvenience.

And now he thinks about it, his mouth is open, and words seem to be coming out of it. “Well, I could do with a hand about the house. would you like to see Rome?"

“Fuck off!” Harry thinks for a moment that it's a rebuttal until he reads, in the nuance of the tone, that the curse is used as disbelief. “You can't just buy people like you're buying bread.” But of course in fact, you can, and Eggsy seems to suddenly come to that realisation because the sum in his hand, and the ease with which Harry was willing to part with it before he even knew it's effective value settles the argument before it's had. “Well, but... What would you want… one of me for?”

“Oh, I'm sure I could find plenty of uses for you.” The way Harry smirks at him is accidental but the answering grin says it's not unwelcome.

The more he thinks on it, the more irrefutably it is the best idea Harry has had in years. He'd thought before that the boy’s wit was wasted on labour and his beauty on anything that isn't Harry's bed. Why not take him home?

Of course, he’ll catch no end of good-natured grief from the officers... Most know enough about him not to be at all surprised when this attendant is suddenly reassigned and replaced with a heartstopping blonde boy covered in love bites, with a smile that feels like midsummer noon, but that's another price he is willing to pay. He’ll pay the gold Eggsy's holding not to have to get his own breakfast and consider it a bargain.

Eggsy's clearly strong enough for the work of attending the Centurion, as much as Harry would like to have him carried home in a litter; he should probably make an effort until they get home to keep up a pretence that he wants him for anything other than recreational and decorative purposes. For decorum's sake, if only. Besides, any actual scorn from his general at the extra body to account for must surely be offset by the fact Harry had done _exactly_ as he was told, for once: he'd gone to the festival, mingled with the locals, drunk himself near senseless and immensely improved his mood. See, he'd even supported the local economy. On that note he'd also found them another strong back for the oars, and no, there would be no need to find additional bedding or space for the boy. Harry will provide those for him, thank you very kindly.

His general is going to have hysterics. Laugh himself into an early grave. Harry can't bring himself to care, if he can strike the deal.

Eggsy is turning gold over in his hand, but he's not looking at it. He's looking at the curve of Harry's collarbone, or somewhere close to it, miles away in consideration. Harry knows that he wouldn't be, if it didn't tempt him.

"You're young. You could learn your own trade and keep yourself if you wanted to. But I've the room for you, and I gather I could quite enjoy your company about the place. And then you'd get to see the city for yourself." He'd told him about the grandest extravagancies of his homeland and it's most interesting dark corners, over the course of the evening, and seen Eggsy's eyes light with fascination. Those eyes remain unfocussed now, wide but unseeing at the gleaming gold in his palm.

“You said yourself you have no family. No sweetheart came to haul you indoors at dawn, and I would have, if you were mine…” Something in there gets a shudder from Eggsy: he wants to be Harry's, one way or another, that much is plain already even if Harry doesn't yet understand why. “What's keeping you here? If you come, I'll not stop you leaving when you wish.”

Eggsy sets the purse back into the top of the chest almost reverently, resolved, and Harry's heart sinks to his stomach.

Well, that'll serve him for being an old fool and trying to cling on to what was only supposed to last the night. He's trying to slap a semblance of cheer back into his face when Eggsy steps cautiously back to his side and picks up his hand.

“Then… I suppose they can wait a while longer." He speaks slowly, as though giving them both a chance to understand his answer. He climbs back in next to Harry, burrowing through furs and fabrics to find his skin. “Don't think they're going to get angry about me disappearing for a few hours when I give them that. Doesn't matter if they do, really, does it? I... I won't be working for them again.”

Harry welcomes him against the side of his body, chilled as he is, and kisses his hair. It's strangely lacking for gravitas but otherwise he might say something stupid about the relief and comfort that blossoms out in his chest, the flush of excitement that's tempered only by his tiredness and the lure of sleep.

There's plenty of time. There'll be more nights… morning, afternoons, whatever time it is now, with this beautiful boy slowly surrendering to sleep in the crook of his arm.

His voice drifts up and Harry barely hears him, half dreaming before he's even closed his eyes, comfortable and sated.

“What's Rome like, Harry?”

Harry sighs.  “Warm.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally called Yule Do. Gettit? Eh? EH? YULE DO. Because it’s a ‘do’ at Yule and they… put the ginger wine down, Lelith, and go to bed.
> 
> You have no idea how hard it was for me not to write lines from Carry On Cleo into this, honestly. 
> 
> Thank you for entertaining our nonsense. If you’d like to see what else we get up to, badger me about fic, talk to me or whatnot you will find me on tumblr under randomactsofviolence. Comments, feedback and whatnot here are also always appreciated.


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